


Behind the Mirror of Your Eyes

by Duck_Life



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Almost Kiss, College, Drinking Games, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt's curious about what he looks like. Then he's curious about what Foggy looks like. Includes the infamous face-touching scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Mirror of Your Eyes

They’re sitting across from each other on the dorm floor, each with a cup of juice and vodka, locked in a seemingly endless game of Never Have I Ever. “Your turn, Matty.”

Already a little tipsy, Matt grins and cocks his head like he’s listening. “Never have I ever…” he stalls, trying to think. “Never have I ever gone to class hungover.”

Foggy groans and then drinks, glaring at his roommate over the rim of his cup. “Alright, alright,” he says, rolling his neck like he’s getting ready for a fight. “Never have I ever pushed a guy out of the way of a truck and gotten blinded.”

“Oh, come on,” Matt protests, but he giggles before taking his drink. “You know, this is exactly why you’re not supposed to play this game with only two people.”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to play this game after freshman year,” says Foggy, but he really doesn’t mind all that much. After too many nights of staying out too late, they both needed a night in. And this provided an easy avenue toward getting to know each other better. Who wouldn’t want to learn more about mysterious, martyrly Matt Murdock? “Go.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“You suck at this.”

Matt takes a swing at him that lands on his shoulder. “Um. Okay. Never have I ever known what my adult face looks like.”

Instead of raising his cup, Foggy stares at him a little incredulously. “Wait. Seriously?”

Matt shrugs. “Mirrors aren’t very effective for me.”

“Yeah, I mean, duh,” Foggy says, brushing off Matt’s lame attempt at a joke. “But what about the whole… face-touching thing? You haven’t…?”

“Are you asking me if I ever touch myself?” Matt says, trying and failing not to snicker.

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Matt says, setting his cup down and leaning back on his hands. His glasses sit slightly askew on his nose. “I’ve got a… _vague_ idea of what I look like. But I mean, I could be covered head to foot in freckles and I wouldn’t even know.”

“Huh,” says Foggy, and then- “You’re not. Just in case you were wondering. You’re not covered in freckles.”

“Ah. Good to know.”

“I mean, you _do_ have this giant weird-ass birthmark on your forehead that looks _exactly_ like a giraffe.”

“You… do realize that if I had a birthmark I’d have seen it. At some point. In my childhood.”

“Man, shut up,” Foggy says, accidentally sloshing a little of his drink over onto the floor. “Seriously, though, do you… do you want to know?”

“Hm?”

“Do you wanna know what you look like now? ’Cause I could, like, tell you,” he says, fumbling on the words. He hasn’t even been drinking enough to blame it on the alcohol; it’s just patented Franklin Nelson awkwardness. “If you want. I’ve been known to be _very_ descriptive.”

Matt mulls it over for a moment, and then says quietly, “Sure.”

Leaning forward, Foggy’s already plucked off his glasses before realizing he maybe should have asked permission. “Sorry-”

“It’s fine,” Matt says, shaking his head slightly. His eyes stare unfocused somewhere over Foggy’s shoulder. “Alright. Go ahead. What do I look like?”

 _A male model_ , he thinks, but shakes it off. “Um,” Foggy says, mouth suddenly dry. “Well, you’ve got brown hair. And brown—shit, wait, you remember colors, right?”

It startles a laugh out of Matt. “Yeah, Fog, I remember colors.”

“Okay. Brown hair, brown eyes. You probably knew that.” It’s probably out of politeness that Matt doesn’t nod. “Um. You have thick eyebrows? I mean. Good job. Growing those.” Matt exhales loudly through his nose, just the shadow of a laugh. “Straight nose. It’s—you have a good nose.” He hesitates. “Your ears are kind of goofy.”

“Goofy?”

“Yeah, I mean—just, they stick out a little.”

“Everyone’s ears do that.”

“Not really.” Foggy takes a sip of his drink. “You’ve got those little frown lines on your forehead. But then you’ve also got, like, smile lines around your eyes. So I guess they balance out.” Matt shrugs. Foggy’s eyes flick downward, feels the vague sensation that he’s about to do something stupid, that trepidation in his stomach. “Your lips are… seriously pink.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, feeling the blood rush to his face, and there’s definitely more he could say. He could talk about the way Matt’s mouth quirks up when he thinks no one can tell he’s got a secret, the wide smiles, the knowing smirks. Hell, he could write a goddamn manifesto about Matthew Murdock’s mouth.

And, as per usual, he chickens out instead. “I mean, that’s gotta be… the ladies must love that.”

Matt shrugs again. Foggy tells himself he’s imagining the slight disappointment in the face he’s been studying. “Okay, there ya go, that’s what you look like,” he says, a little too fast.

“Thanks,” Matt says, and reaches out a hand for his glasses back. As Foggy’s passing them over, the shades forming a bridge between their hands, Matt hesitates. “I, uh,” Matt says, his voice quiet again. “I don’t know what _you_ look like, Foggy.”

Oh. “I… you’re not really… missing anything.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Matt says, and with the hand that’s not holding his glasses, he reaches out towards Foggy’s face. “Do you mind if I…?” And Foggy considers his options—for instance, _running out the goddamn door_ is high on the list—but he gets too distracted by those damn lips and gives in.

“Go ahead.”

Matt sets his glasses down beside him on the floor and reaches out with both hands before lightly framing Foggy’s face with his fingers, temples to chin. And Jesus Christ, if Foggy thought he was flustered before, Matt touching his face sends him into overdrive. He closes his eyes, really glad Matt can’t hear his heart pounding.

Matt’s thumbs sweep over his cheekbones, fingers reaching up to find his hairline and then moving downward. He traces the lines between Foggy’s eyes, runs down the length of his nose. Matt’s fingertips move up to brush lightly over his eyelids, and he’s reminded oddly of Matt reading braille—patiently, methodically. Matt finds his brows, the line of his jaw, the coarseness of a beard, and then one thumb is running agonizingly slowly over his lips.

Foggy cracks his eyes open, because he can’t believe it, can’t believe that Matt’s really doing this, that he’s not pulling away. And then he can’t believe that the bastard has a smile on his face.

He has trouble believing what happens next, too, because it makes no sense.

But Matt starts leaning forward. Just tilting his head, at first, his thumb still memorizing the shape of Foggy’s lips, but then Matt’s literally stretching across the space between them to get closer. His face is close enough that Foggy can smell the vodka on his breath, and he should probably move away, he thinks, he should probably lean back and make a joke and brush it off.

He leans forward.

The distance between them grows smaller and smaller, and at the last moment Matt drops his thumb down, freeing up Foggy’s lips, and he’s still getting closer-

And that’s when they hear the siren.

It’s not super close, probably an ambulance heading to a nearby hospital, but Matt’s always been kind of sensitive to those damn things, so he startles a bit and it’s enough to pull them both out of the moment. It’s silent, and there’s something unspoken hanging between them. For a long second, they just sit there, and then they’re hopping up like the floor’s made of lava.

“Goodnight” and “It’s getting late” and “Should be getting to bed” come out in stuttered, garbled babbling as the two of them clamber into their respective beds. Matt gets the light switch—whether for the benefit of his roommate or Columbia’s electricity bills, Foggy doesn’t ask. The sooner they’re asleep, the sooner they can’t talk about what just happened, the better.

Lying there, after a while, Matt says, “Hey, Foggy?”

“Foggy’s _asleep_.” He hears rustling, like Matt might’ve rolled over in his bed. He’s not looking; he’s got the covers pulled over his face like he can hide from a dumb crush and a _moment_ the way he used to hide from closet-lurking monsters as a kid.

Matt, not believing his clever lie, says quietly, “I like how you look.” 


End file.
